CHAPTER 36

Mom

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SPANKING, GROUNDING, SCOLDING, SHAME, those tactics only work on a child who still respects their parent as a superior. That child will be angry and hateful, but they’ll do as they’re told. They’ll stay home and blast loud music in retaliation.

What do you do when your child realizes there is nothing you can do to stop her? When she isn’t afraid to leave and never come back?

It’s terrifying to know our roles have been reversed. Lucy’s in charge, and there are no rules. She can do whatever she wants, because if I say “no” or try to parent her, she’ll just take off, and I’d rather have her home than out on the streets for days. At least she’s safe when she’s here.

Tonight I’m watching TV by myself in the near pitch-black living room. I keep all the lights off because the only way I know she’s here without checking every five minutes is that I can see the flickering of her computer screen from beneath the door.

Wine, my nightly elixir, keeps me from obsessing over what to do about her. It numbs me, though never completely. Tonight it doesn’t seem to be working.

I look around my small apartment and wonder how I’ve gotten here. This was supposed to be a new beginning for us, but as I watch the subtle blue light flash down the hallway, I feel nothing but regret in the empty pit of my stomach.

How selfish am I to chase after my own dreams before my children have found their place in the world? I did this to her, I think. How can I be angry at her? I brought her here. I fed her to the wolves. She isn’t a bad person, I tell myself. She’s just fallen in with the wrong crowd. I can save her. I will save her.

Things have started disappearing out of my house, a camera, a bottle of wine, and I know it’s her friends, but she denies it so vehemently and viciously that I’ve stopped asking about the stuff. I’ll have to face it eventually. They’re stealing. Maybe more wine will give me courage. I gulp down the rest of my merlot, and reach for the bottle on the coffee table but it’s empty.

Where does she go when she disappears? What does she do out there? She has completely slipped away from me, and I know in my heart she’s in with some really bad people. Her behavior is erratic and frenzied. I know she’s on speed, but the coward in me will not confront it. The coward in me won’t turn in my baby or call the police. The coward in me has won.

Quiet voices drift down the hallway, making me lift my drooping eyes. Any other time I might have pretended not to hear, but the wine makes me the tiniest bit braver. I slip off the couch to check her room, planning to use my routine goodnight as the excuse to peer inside.

I creep into the hall and slowly open her door just a crack. The room is dark, but I see the figures of people all around. Lucy turns and glares at me, but there is something else that keeps my attention and turns me into a manikin where I stand. There is a grown man at her computer. His head is shaved and a large 8 ball is tattooed onto the back of his shiny scalp. He turns, and our eyes connect. I don’t have the strength of will to feign confidence and, at the very least, give him my death-stare. Instead, the coward in me closes the door without a word and goes to bed.

* * *

It’s one of those nights where the only proof I slept is the vague memory of a dream. My sweating brow and pounding heart are with me always, my companions into the morning. They escort me to Lucy’s room. She’s gone, of course.

The window is left open. All that remains of her desktop computer is an outline of dust around the clean circular imprint of the base. They’ve stolen it, or she sold it, but the entire computer is gone.

Worry worms into my chest until it finds its way to my heart.

The house is eerily quiet. I breathe in a sigh of relief at the peace, but deep down, I’m terrified.

I think of all the time I’ve spent driving around combing the streets, knocking on doors until I found her, then guilting her into coming home. I don’t even know where to look now, but I’m exhausted at the thought of another night of not knowing where she is. I tell myself it doesn’t matter right now. It’s early, not even dark. She could come back.

I head for my closet to change out of my nightgown when I hear the door slam in the living room. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end. For a second, I honestly wonder if I’m about to come face to face with one of her gang friends, but the sound of her calling settles my nerves.

“Mom!” I hear her yell. “MOM!!!”

“I’m right here,” I say, coming into the hallway. “You don’t have to yell.”

“Fine. I need some money.”

She looks awful. Pale and skinny, hair straight and stringy with oil like she hasn’t bathed in days.

“You don’t even say hello? Just 'I need some money?' Where have you been? Have you been gone all night?”

“Oh, God. I’ve been out, okay?”

I decide to ignore her obvious foul mood by changing the subject. No sense in pushing her. At least she’s home.

“Well, I’m about to make breakfast? Do you want some eggs?”

“I’m not staying for breakfast. I need some money for food and stuff. I’m meeting a friend right now.”

My heart pounds hard in my chest, and I brace myself for the blowback. “I don’t have any money, Lucy. You know that we’re barely making it as it is. I gave you your allowance, what happened to that?”

“That was nothing. I already spent it. I know you have money. Go to the ATM or something. My friend is waiting for me!”

I think about what Art said. They eventually need money.

“I don’t have any money, and that’s that,” I say walking casually toward my room. “I’m sorry, but maybe you should just stay here today. I can take the day off if you want.” I don’t wait for an answer. I’m too anxious to get away before the fury in her rises. I need to be steadfast and consistent, that’s what everyone has told me. I close the door, removing myself from the argument before it starts. It seems like a good defense, but I can already hear her barging down the hall.

I slip into the bathroom just as she reaches my bedroom. I try to close the door but she pushes it with ungodly strength. “Let me in!”

We grapple for what seems like eternity, but she is stronger than me, and I scream as she fits her skinny body through the opening. This is not my daughter, I think, shaking as I’m pinned to the wall by the barrage of her words. She’s always had a temper, but this violent, rough, version of her triggers uncontrollable panic.

“You can’t do this to me!” she screams, her pale face brightening red with anger. “I won’t be your prisoner!”

I manage to push my way by, and she stands watching me with disgust. I’m actually scared of my own daughter. The thought fuels more tears, and I head down the hall, grabbing my purse before running out the door. I have to get away from her.

Outside is still cool and damp with morning. My bare feet slap the concrete steps, scooping up filth as I run. The only place I can think of is my car. I make it down to the garage and look around frantically, but she hasn’t followed. As I sit with my head on the steering wheel, tears fall on my knees, and the sobs and cries of helplessness wheeze out of me.

I can’t seem to catch my breath, so I pull out my phone and dial the crisis number the police had given me the last time they picked her up. I’m almost incoherent on the phone, I know that, but the person on the other end of the line is patient and kind. With a few deep breaths she gets me to calm down and tell her what’s going on.

Just as I’m regaining composure, loud slaps makes me scream in surprise. Lucy is outside the car pounding on the window. My first instinct is to lock the doors, and her frustration boils over. She screams at me to get out. It’s this moment that I’m certain I’ve lost my daughter. Whatever has taken hold of her has won, and I just want to hide. I can’t deal with this, and I’m scared. Scared for myself and scared for her. Suddenly, the pounding stops and Lucy is gone.

I realize the person on the other end of the phone is still there, pleading with me to tell her what’s happening. I can’t believe I have to tell this story about my own daughter and my fear of her. I have to call the police they say, or else the abuse will continue. Abuse, I think. Abuse.

I thank them and tell them she’s gone, that I’m safe and I’ll do what they tell me. Instead I sit for a long time in my car, stunned and empty.

I’m not going to call the police, of course. She’s my daughter. I love her.

Somehow I know I’ll regret those words later when I realize doing nothing is not love, but my own form of abuse. I sneak upstairs as quietly as possible, and wait for my heart to settle before I call Art.

“Hey honey,” I say, my voice low and dejected.

“Morning, beautiful. How’d you sleep?”

“Not good. Lucy had friends over last night and now her computer is gone.”

“The whole thing?” he asks in shock. I can’t imagine what it must have looked like when those thugs toted a desktop computer through the open window of my apartment.

“Yeah. And she’s gone again.”

“Want me to come over?”

He’s there before I finish my first cup of coffee.

I don’t bother to change out of my nightgown or fix my hair. That’s why I find myself loving him so much. He sees right through it all, and appreciates me for the person I am, not the way I look.

“I missed you,” he says, leaning over to kiss me on the couch.

He sits next to me in full uniform. The contrast in our appearances is funny. Normally I’d laugh at the two of us, but I don’t have it in me.

“Me too,” I answer. “Want some coffee?”

I get up and grab him a cup, because I already know the answer. When I hand it to him, he gives me one of those hangdog, sympathetic expressions. I guess he can tell I’m a mess.

“I think she had those Crazy Eight guys in my house.”

His soft eyes intensify. “Why do you say that? Did you see them?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “The room was dark, but I could tell they were grown men. One of them had a bald head and an eight-ball tattoo.”

He presses his thumb and forefinger to his eyebrows and drags his hand over his face.

“That’s not good, Rach.” He keeps shaking his head.

I break. I’ve tried to hold it in, and pretend like it doesn’t bother me that she’s so wild, because she’s my little girl. She’s in there somewhere, and I keep waiting for this phase to pass or for her to realize how good she has it and come back to me. But I’ve finally fallen from the cliff of hope I’ve been scaling so carefully.

“I don’t know what to do.” I let it out, burying my head into the deep blue fabric of his uniform. He cradles me and kisses the top of my head.

I can’t think of the last time a man has held me like this. It feels strange to be comforted instead of yelled at or made fun of. I hold him a little tighter as the tears let up.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers.

I sit up and kiss him on the mouth, another feeling I’m still getting used to. It’s been years since I truly kissed my husband.

When I pull away, he looks me over, clearly distressed by my state. “Just say the word and I’ll put out a search. It might be what’s best for her. Maybe scare her back to reality, you know?”

I bite my lip, tasting the salt from my tears. “Will she get in trouble, though? I don’t want her to end up in jail or with major charges on her record...”

“She’s a minor. It won’t be anything serious, and I’ll try to keep things off the books. Get some buddies of mine to help me out.”

I’m desperate. I want my daughter back. There’s just no way of knowing whether this will strengthen or snare the delicate rope that tethers us together.

But it’s the only thing I’ve got.

“Okay,” I say, taking a breath to find my courage. “Try and find her. Arrest her if you have to.”